“Why didn't you come to the counter at once and say hello?”
He shook his head, “I wanted to all right, but I hated to appear presumin', an' with my rep in this village you know how people are liable to talk. World treatin' you well, Miss Donnie?”
“I think I get more fun out of San Pasqual than most of the people in it.”
“Well, then, you must spend a lot o' time lookin' into a mirror” replied Harley P., and blushed at his effrontery. “That's the only way the San Pasqual folks can get any fun—a-lookin' at your face.”
“Mr. Hennage, I fear you're getting to be one of the presuming kind. I declare I haven't had such pretty speeches made me this year. By the way, how's the kitty?”
Harley P.'s russet countenance swelled like the wattles on a Thanksgiving turkey. He leaned over the counter and gazed under it; his glance swept the room; he even, peered under his stool. Finally he looked up at Donna with his three gold teeth flashing through his trustful, childish smile.
“I dunno” he answered. “I guess she's around the house somewheres. I ain't seen her in quite a spell.”
“I thought so,” she answered gravely, “or you wouldn't have returned to San Pasqual. Small game for a small pocketbook, eh, Mr. Hennage?” She came closer to him. “I don't mind telling you—just between friends, you understand—that I have a couple of hundred to stake you to if you're hard up, but for goodness sake don't tell Mrs. Pennycook. She talks.”
“Good Lord” gasped the gambler, and choked on a crouton. “D'ye mean it, Miss Donna?”
“Certainly.”